


Red Lines in Dark Stone

by Elenothar



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Durin Family Feels, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Thorin's A+ coping methods, even though Thorin is an idiot who should talk to people more, post BOFA - everybody lives, the company + Dis being super supportive, tw: self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After BOFA Thorin is wrecked by guilt, convinced that most of the bloodshed is his fault (see: the arkenstone debacle). As king and responsible for Erebor, he decides that he will do <em>anything</em> to stop himself from succumbing to the gold sickness again, even if it means hurting himself.</p><p>When his family and friends find out, they don't react as he'd expected them to.</p><p>(Original prompt in the author's notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Lines in Dark Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/6263.html?thread=15305079#t15305079) kinkmeme prompt on LJ:
> 
>  
> 
> _Everybody survives BotFA (though with injuries). Now recovered from the gold sickness, Thorin is not only wracked with guilt, he's terrified that the madness will come back. He starts self-harming as a reminder of all the people who bled for him, because if he can just keep that memory sharp enough, maybe he won't lose himself again._
> 
>  
> 
> _Someone finds out. Could be Bilbo, could be Fili & Kili, could be Balin & Dwalin, could be the whole Company. I just want them to be really horrified (especially after they realize Thorin thinks this is the best way to deal and anyway he deserves it) and then super supportive and comforting._
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: The tags don't lie - if talk of self-harm triggers you, do NOT read this (it's not really graphic, but it is the main point of this fic). I really hope that I managed to give this topic the respect and care it deserves.

***

The first time it happens it’s an accident, the shards of the pretty little vase Bilbo had brought back from the Shire having left shallow cuts on his left hand and arm as it shattered under the pressure of his grip. Thorin had broken a lot of things lately, when his mind flashes back to battlefields and sickness without warning and the sudden assault makes him gasp for air into constricting lungs.

He stands in the middle of his chambers, unheeding of the incongruously bright flowers littering the floor around him as he stares at the drops of red on his scarred skin and finds himself distantly thinking _this could work_.

It doesn’t take long for it to become a habit.

He bleeds to remember, to never forget those who had spilled their blood for him, _because_ of him and his madness. He bleeds as a warning to himself, to never lose his mind in such a devastating way again – not to gold, never again to gold and treasure – for every time he sees the red of his blood as it drips down his skin the consequences of his actions seem nearer, impossible to ignore. He bleeds because he doesn’t know what else to do. How else to prevent himself from falling again.

To him they are battle scars he creates, documenting every skirmish in his war against his own mind that has already betrayed him once.

When his nights are troubled by nightmares and the days filled with matters of state that he sometimes thinks he has no business taking care of – how can he be the king Erebor needs after what he has done? – one little cut can bring him a few moments of sorely needed peace. It isn’t only a reminder anymore, but a release.

After a while he finds that, even if he wanted to, even if he didn’t think that he deserves the pain, even if his thoughts were free of guilt and regret and fear of himself – of what he is capable of – he would not be able to stop anymore; no more than he is able to let go of the past. The realization brings shame on its heels, for a dwarven warrior shouldn’t be dependent on anything but his weapons, and sometimes not even those, but even the shame isn’t enough of a deterrent, and he picks up the knife again and again, night after night.

He uses the same knife every time; as beautiful as it is deadly, it had been forged by his sister herself, and given in good faith that it would protect and serve the line of Durin, honourably and with good intent. It only seems fitting that he uses it now to remember how Fíli and Kíli had almost perished protecting him when he should’ve been the one protecting them. And they are only two of many he has failed over the course of his life, and for all that the stark number of his years doesn’t make him an old dwarf in name, he sometimes feels that he’s lived too long already.

And every time the shame returns he battles _that_ into submission too, heedless of the damage he might be inflicting upon himself. Thorin’s only concession is that he keeps his unworthy habit a secret. He doesn’t need to see the disappointed and disgusted faces of his friends and family, who have always stood by him if he deserved it or not, on top of all his other worries. And for a long while it proves almost too easy.

*

Ironically exactly a year later, during the memorial celebration of the Battle of the Five armies as some aspiring bard had named it, the trouble starts. Truthfully, Dís especially had been looking at him with barely concealed frowns marring her proud brow more and more for some time now – not that he had expected any different. Dís is, perhaps, the last person still walking Middle-Earth who knows him so well as to never be fooled for long; she fills the role of that one sibling who simply sees through all his bullshit with terrifying competence and acumen, as Thorin has found far too often already and usually much to his chagrin.

To almost everyone else Thorin has had no difficulty appearing as the proud and content ruler of the kingdom he had helped reclaim, years of masking his feelings during the days that his folk was ailing and lost and needed a strong, unwavering leader now showing their use.

Yet Balin too, has started to give him pointed looks and Thorin now takes even more care not to be partially undressed around anyone – which is fortunately not too big a hardship or particularly difficult for an unattached dwarf.

Some things, however, even he can’t plan for.

Thorin sits at the head of the largest table in the hall, surrounded by his family – Dis on his left, Fíli on his right and Kíli to Fíli’s right – a sense of happiness managing to break through his cloudy thoughts for a time. It had been far too long since these halls had last frequently echoed with the mirth and joy of its occupants, and to see another sign of the restoration of Erebor warms him in a way that no fire can. It’s moments like these that he knows it was worth the hardship and the guilt to see his home alive once more.

Dwarves have been coming up to their table to pay their respects or offer well-wishes to their royal family all night, so he thinks nothing of it when another nears. Later he can only silently thank years of living on edge, always aware of danger lurking around him, that his senses start screaming at him in warning before it’s too late.

The knife flies, quick as thought, and Thorin moves without thinking, not as quick but _quick enough_. He ignores Fíli’s reflexive squawk at being shoved to the floor unceremoniously, ignores the fiery pain erupting from his thigh as his raised leg gets in the way of the would-be-killer’s weapon’s flight path, ignores the pandemonium that breaks out all around him, and focuses on stretching out his arm to drag Kíli down out of sight like Fíli as his leg gives out beneath him.

He must’ve hit his head on the cold stone for he is only vaguely aware of worried voices and hands grasping at him, lifting him up and the curiously weightless feeling of quickly being carried through the halls.

Thorin only manages to rouse himself to coherency when hands start tugging at his clothes, intent on laying the wound bare.

Panic courses through him, sharp and vivid like a stream of cold water that restores lucidity and with it the knowledge that everything he’s tried to hide for so long will come to light if they actually manage to get his breeches off. Inaccessibility had been one of the factors that had made him decide to use his inner thighs for cutting, and now it seems that decision would backfire on him.

He hadn’t even noticed the continuing noises of protest that had escaped his mouth before now, nor the reprimanding scowls on the faces of the dwarves gathered around him in a worried huddle as he instinctively tries to wriggle free, but now he snaps, “I’m fine! Leave it, I’ll deal – ”

“Shut up, laddie, and let Óin do his work,” Balin admonishes from his left somewhere, though not unkindly.

Thorin feels his panic rising, his heart beating ever faster, and only the pain radiating from his leg keeps him grounded enough to keep protesting, bucking against the many hands holding him still on what he distantly recognizes to be his own bed.

With a last rip, Dwalin, who’d evidently lost his patience with the fiddly knots tying the breeches, frees Thorin’s legs from the garment.

Thorin freezes into complete stillness and for a moment time seems to stop. His breathing sounds unbearably loud to his own ears, even as his body lies rigid and unmoving. Everyone is staring, horror clear on their faces. Some of the hands have left his body, others halted in their motion.

Thorin closes his eyes in defeat, his head falling back against the pillow. He doesn’t want to see the looks any longer. His sister, his nephews, Balin and Dwalin, Óin, most of his old company and even Bilbo, _sweet Bilbo_ , are here. He dimly wishes they all hadn’t been so worried about him to insist on staying while Óin made sure he wasn’t dying – as if! – from a measly knife wound.

For a while no one utters a sound. Then everyone starts talking at once, a cacophony of noise that only dims when a single cry rises over the din.

“Out!” Dís shouts with the entire force of an intimidating dwarrodam behind it. “Everybody except Óin _out_!”

No one is stupid or suicidal enough to protest and blessed silence returns.

Thorin keeps his eyes closed and body still as Óin gets to work on his knife wound. Dís’ presence next to him weighs heavily in the air, the promise of painful words to be exchanged later.

And then Óin, too, leaves and Thorin is alone with the one person whose judgement he fears above all else.

He almost jumps at the infinitely tender touch of rough fingertips on his cheek, the strong hands of a dwarrowdam capable of killing and smithing gentled into a caress.

“Oh nadadel, what have you done to yourself?” she sighs, voice laced with an unidentifiable mix of emotions. Yet the almost choked sob that escapes after can hardly be mistaken for anything but the grief that it is and Thorin hates having caused it, hates hearing his sister sound as lost and broken as he feels. Hates that she has only him as a brother left now, when she deserves so much better.

Thorin opens his eyes, unwilling to let her suffering go unacknowledged, however hard it may be to let her see the shame roaring through his eyes.

And still he refuses to speak. After all, what would he say?

Dís catches his gaze, something fierce alighting her face. “Why?” she asks and now her voice is filled with steel, all sadness pushed away.

“It’s a reminder,” he says, his voice quiet, a counterpoint to her strength.

She stares at him.

“Of _what_?”

Finally he manages to tear his gaze away from her, fixing it on an incongruously boring spot on the ceiling overhead instead. “Still hardly a night passes without dreams of the battlefield,” he comments, almost idly, both answering and not. “Sleep is harder and harder to come by these days.”

Dis half turns away, facing the emblem of Durin adorning one wall of the king’s chambers, yet her fingers remain cupping his face, as if unwilling to lose the contact. “Some would seek oblivion after such a thing. Forgetting, rather than remembering.”

“How could I let myself _forget_?” he chokes, a humourless chuckle escaping his lips. “How could I let myself forget the blood spilled for me, the madness that started it all? It can never happen again, do you understand me Dís? It can never happen again and to that end I cannot forget. And a little pain is no less than I deserve.”

When Dis turns her head back to him there are unshed tears shining in her dark blue eyes so like his own. “You stubborn mizimûn, you have always been so honourable. Always trying to right all wrongs and taking the weight of the world on your shoulders… do you _truly_ believe this?”

Though he doesn’t answer, the look in his eyes is all she needs to know, and she huffs a small half-chuckle. “Foolish of me to ask, I know. Guilt has always lain heavily on you, deserved or not.”

Raising his hand, Thorin gently wipes away a tear that is leaving a shining track down her cheek. “I’m sorry, sister. I had not wished to burden you with this.”

“And that’s exactly the problem!” she cries, wiping away the rest of her tears with a furious swipe of her hand. “You should not feel like you’re alone in this, Thorin. Did you think your friends, _your family_ , would have judged you? No, we would have helped you gladly, had you but said a word of your distress.”

Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knows that to be true, yet, whenever he had thought about confessing his problems there had always been plenty of reasons to hold him back. He hadn’t wanted to worry Balin, who already worries so much as it is and Dwalin’s solutions to any kind of problem inevitably turn out to include beating the crap out of each other at training courts, which, while temporarily diverting, would not have helped much in the long run – not that Thorin blames him for that, it is a good and trusted dwarven approach after all, but his many issues aren’t much like what a dwarf _should_ be anyway. Fíli and Kíli he hadn’t told out of fear, if he is completely honest with himself; from many he could’ve born looks of disappointment, but never from them.

Then there is Bilbo, still somehow so innocent after all that had happened on their long journey, in whose presence Thorin’s heart sometimes pounds almost painfully and thus has never been an option. After all what would a hobbit do with such a damaged dwarf, especially when he deserves the best Middle-earth has to offer?

And Dís… Dís is and always will be his beloved baby sister, whom he has spent much of his life trying to shelter from their harsh reality as much as possible, and so firmly rooted is that instinct that he had never even considered telling her.

Yet here he is, barring his heart and getting only understanding and love in return.

“I don’t know what to do,” he forces out through his tightly constricted throat and it’s true even if he’s never admitted it out loud before. “I was lost for so long and I’m still lost, even if I’m now king in more than title.”

Strong arms wrap around his shivering frame, holding him close, much like he used to do with her when she was still young.

“I’m here,” Dis whispers, soothing words in their simplicity. “I’m always here.”

He leans into her embrace and cries. There will be more words later, conversations he doesn’t want to have and explanations he doesn’t know how to give, but for now, there’s only silence and comfort freely given.

The next time he looks, ignoring his specific orders to ‘stay in bed and do NOT aggravate that leg or else’, the knife is gone.

*

Over the next few days of enforced bed rest Thorin could hardly fail to notice that he isn’t being left alone even for a moment. There is always one of the company or Dís to be found at his bedside or sitting in front of the hearth, sometimes even groups of dwarves making themselves at home in his quarters.

(An especially memorable evening Nori brought a deck of cards and proceeded to soundly beat every dwarf foolish enough to challenge him – in this case Bofur, Bombur, Glóin, and Kíli. Rather unsurprisingly the whole thing ends in a brawl, which Thorin cannot help but find entertaining despite his growing irritation at his loss of privacy.)

Most of the time he is glad of their company, offering both a distraction and a reason not to stretch out his hand for something sharp whenever the urge threatens to overcome him. Which, especially during the first days, is often. Thorin hadn’t even noticed quite how dependant he’d come to be on the short rush of peace that spilling his own blood had regularly brought him when his guilt had become too much to bear, or his fear of forgetting grew too strong. Now he finds himself with shaking hands and short breaths more often than he cares to count – and no other choice than to call out to his friends and occupy his body and mind otherwise.

No one really brings up the topic of his deeds against himself, choosing to comfortably sit and joke and talk about other things instead and quietly help him when his bearing screamed for help. Thorin isn’t quite sure whether he is glad at their discretion or annoyed at everyone’s overly careful avoidance.

Balin is the first to sit down next to him with purpose in his eyes. In more ways than one it’s a relief.

“You do know that it has to stop, Thorin,” Balin says, a statement where maybe it should’ve been a question. He looks serious, more serious than usual even. Balin has always had a knack for replacing the kindly, old grandfather look with severity in seconds whenever needed.

Thorin meets his gaze, quite aware that if he doesn’t convince Balin of his sincerity in this, his situation won’t change for a _very_ long time. “I know.”

Some of the hesitance he still feels must be audible in his voice or clear on his face, however, for Balin reminds him gently, “We do not judge you, lad. We are here to help.”

“So Dís said.”

“And she’s right,” Balin agrees easily. He leans forward a little, resting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder in a clear show of support. “Just keep it in mind, aye laddie?”

Thorin nods, slightly shamefaced. All these reassurances serve to remind him how much he failed these people as much as they actually help. He still believes his original reasons for keeping quiet to be valid, but he never wanted to hurt them with his silence – and he has, even if they will not say it outright.

“There are other ways to deal with your burdens,” Balin continues, voice gentle again, as if he followed Thorin’s train of thought and found it heading into a dangerous direction.

Right now Thorin only feels tired, unable to keep the waspishness out of his tone when he asks, “Like what?”

“Talking about it, for a start,” Balin replies, seemingly completely unruffled by Thorin’s rudeness. “Bottling in your emotions and worries is what brought you here, and you need a different outlet than hurting yourself. It only brings temporary relief and if your issues aren’t properly addressed than you’ll never be free of the need.”

It sounds logical and so very Balin and Thorin feels himself bristling. “And you are the new expert on broken people now, Balin?”

He immediately regrets his words when the other’s eyes cloud over, for they were worse than thoughtless, given what Balin has endured in his life – usually alongside Thorin, so he should know.

Balin’s gaze is dark when he gazes at a spot past Thorin’s head. “I knew one dwarf who, after the Battle of Azanulbizar, started hurting himself. He had only had a brother left after the fall of Erebor and when he saw him cut down by orcs… he never truly recovered and he kept injuring himself worse and worse. I don’t know if he simply didn’t care what he was doing to himself or didn’t truly notice, but his neighbour found him dead in a pool of his own blood nigh three years after the battle.”

Balin’s eyes drill into Thorin’s, fierce and hard. “I will _not_ let the same happen to you, Thorin, as long as long as I still draw breath.”

 Thorin lowers his head in acknowledgement, then looks up with the smallest of smiles. “I’ll do my best to avoid such a fate then, old friend.”

“See that you do,” Balin huffs, but a smile is tugging at the edge of his lips. “And never again think that you are alone in this.”

That, Thorin can live with.

*

As expected Dwalin drags Thorin down to the training courts as soon as he’s fully recovered and declared fit enough to take up the running of the kingdom again. The warrior offers catharsis through exercise of the body – though Thorin valiantly denies Dwalin’s claim that being so busy with paperwork and looking after Erebor has made his physical fitness suffer – and while they don’t talk and Dwalin doesn’t push him to open up to him, Thorin finds that helpful as well.

And his friend makes a point to always be available when Thorin comes to him in search for a good bout, be it in the middle of the night or not.

The first time Thorin stands on Dori’s doorstep, his hands shaking and his thoughts scattered with need, the other dwarf looks surprised, but lets him in without a word, sits his king down in front of the fire and presses a set of knitting needles and yarn into his hands, proceeding to teach him the intricacies of knitting with never a waver in his voice.

It becomes a regular thing for Thorin to seek out the quietly fussy dwarf when his thoughts become too much for his mind, and while he doesn’t particularly enjoy working with cloth, he does learn a lot of different techniques, from knitting to crochet, and finds it strangely soothing. Sometimes Ori is there and encourages him to take up a quill and draw, but Thorin finds – a little to his regret – that he has no aptitude for it beyond technical drawings and schematics.

The first time Dori is unavailable, Thorin goes to Bofur and Bifur instead, who manage to keep his hands busy by pushing a block of wood into it and a carving knife and he thinks that he shouldn’t be so grateful that they trust him with the knife, _but he is_. Once Bombur comes by to offer him a place at his own home to stay whenever he needs it – and delicious food to boot – but Thorin is loath to interrupt his family’s life like that, so he never takes him up on the offer. Dwarflings are rare enough that he doesn’t want to subject them to the sight of a dwarf so obviously shaken up as Thorin usually is when he seeks out his old comrades’ assistance.

It takes him a long while to go to Fíli and Kíli for comfort, a fact that he knows hurts his nephews, but he simply cannot bring himself to confront them with his issues any more than they’ve already glimped, until Dís finally intervenes and shoves him through their door during one of his weaker moments.

He can’t say that he objects to the cuddly pile of nephews, uncle, and blankets in front of the fire that follows after his apologies – which Fíli and Kíli refuse anyway, on the grounds of understanding his motivations even if they don’t agree – though. And when he looks at their faces, relaxed in slumber as they bracket him with warm _alive_ bodies, he finally realizes that this, this is enough reason to believe in getting better.

*

Thorin doesn’t see Bilbo for a long while after his injury and the subsequent realization – or perhaps it only _feels_ long to him when his heart wishes to be closer to the other than ever – and he can’t deny the pang of hurt the hobbit’s avoidance causes, even though he tries to keep his frustration at bay. Hobbits are a peace-loving harmonious folk and it is very possible that this is Bilbo’s first brush with someone consciously harming himself and thus equally possible that he feels at a loss as to how to deal with Thorin now that he knows.

Then, one morning Thorin wakes up to the sight of a bunch of flowers brightening the mantelpiece. He studies them for a while, but if there is indeed such a thing as a language of flowers and thus a hidden message within them he doesn’t understand it; similar to most dwarves he doesn’t get past the outer characteristics and even then mostly notes things like ‘this one is blue’ and ‘this one is red and frilly’.

Still, there is hardly a question as to who left them and when he turns his head he spots Bilbo sitting on a chair on the other side of the bed, his legs swinging gently above the ground.

They sit silently for a long time, regarding each other with their thoughts hidden from each other, until a small movement draws Thorin’s attention to Bilbo’s hands. Slowly, carefully the hobbit stretches out his hand and rests it over Thorin’s. A jolt passes through him at the unexpected warmth and for a moment he simply stares down at their joined hands in shock.

“If I can do anything to help, I’ll do it,” Bilbo says quietly, catching Thorin’s gaze and holding it with some of the same determination that had shone through during times of great peril or stress.

So they sit together for an indeterminate time, hands clasped and Thorin tries not to think about how he hadn’t wished Bilbo to know, hadn’t wished him to see him so weak and only mortal.

When finally there is a knock on the door, Thorin says “Thank you for the flowers” and “I’m sorry” and means “Please stay here” and “I might be in love with you”.

And Bilbo replies “You’re welcome” and “It’s all right” and maybe he means something different as well, for his smile is warm and his eyes are bright.

 Perhaps, just perhaps, they have found a beginning – and Thorin lets himself hope.

*

The urge never completely goes away, nor does the guilt or the fear, but he has learned to live with it all and has found better ways to cope, so that when the feast marking a decade since the battle looms closer, he can look forward to it without the shadow of the past clouding his thoughts and dimming his joy.

The scars on his legs will remain, but they’re now long healed.


End file.
